‘What do you suggest?’ she said.
It surprised her that he actually had some ideas. He muttered them as if self-conscious, and after a while she began to offer her own suggestions. He listened, seeming to test the weight of each one in his mind. Soon they were throwing names back and forth across the crib like some parody of parents.
A resounding crack echoed through the chamber, making them both start. The glow from the iceplace became brighter, blue light dancing across the walls. They turned to stare as fine threads of dark blue energy coalesced within the block, concentrating within the hairline split that had appeared through its centre. The threads twisted to form letters, electric and alive, and brief. The crack grew and the ice fell apart, letters gone.
‘The gods,’ Tyrellan had murmured in wonderment, ‘take an interest.’
Suddenly Heron felt the cold touch of steel at her throat. ‘You will not tell Battu of this!’ Tyrellan hissed through pointed fangs, a strange gleam in his eyes. ‘You tell him the name, but not its origin. Do you understand? You will never speak of this to anyone!’
‘As you say, First Slave!’ she’d choked, confused. What did Tyrellan fear? Would not Battu be pleased?
Tyrellan had pushed her away, giving her a hard look as though making up his mind whether or not to end her right then.
‘I will not need the courage to jump from a high balcony if I have a dagger through my throat,’ she muttered.
He’d scowled and left the room.
Heron had gripped the side of the cot to steady herself and looked down upon the baby.
Losara.
Heron entered Losara’s chamber. It held an old cupboard full of knotholes, a low flat bed in the centre, a table at which Heron and Losara ate their meals in high-backed chairs, a board of slate against a wall where Heron drew with chalk when she taught him, and ice glowing in the iceplace. The few small oddments Losara had found for himself barely made an impression in the space.
It took her a moment to spot the boy. He was sitting half-submerged in the shadows that ringed the edges of the room. Naked and cross-legged with his back to her, he was sliding his hands along the stone floor. She raised a hand to her mouth when she realised that, as he withdrew his hands, the shadow came too, like melted toffee sticking to his fingers. Losara cocked his head to watch as it drained back through his fingers, though some flecks remained trapped under his fingernails. She had already guessed he had an affinity with shadows, but this, at such an early age?
The boy turned, regarding her with large, dark eyes.
‘Hello, Losara,’ she said.
Without speaking, he got up and padded over to the bed, spots of shadow shaking free of him to fly back to the edges of the room. He climbed up and sat, watching her, then patted the bed next to him. She smiled; despite his being the cause of her internment, she had grown fond of the boy. She sat, and he reached out to touch her hand.
A quiet child, he was strangely affectionate towards her – and, she had realised with some surprise, towards Tyrellan – whether it was a soft touch in greeting, or the gift of some small thing he’d found, or the look of acceptance in his beautiful ivory face. Although he rarely smiled, his face was full of expression: curiosity, compassion, sometimes something unrecognisable. His brown eyes had become almost as dark as the black of his pupils, and when he looked out from under his silky blue fringe, it was a gaze that seemed both full of depth and capable of seeing depth in what it looked upon. In a world of misery, he was the one thing that brought her comfort.
‘What were you doing there?’ she asked.
‘Playing,’ said Losara. He waggled his fingers at her.
‘How long have you been able to do that?’
Losara looked at her as if the question didn’t make sense. ‘Where are my mother and father?’ he asked instead, just as he had done that morning. Then he added, in a very un-childlike manner, ‘I’ll learn nothing else till I learn of this.’
She was taken aback by the command in his voice, and glad Battu had given her leave to tell him. She began to recount the story of his birth, on a stormy night six years past. She told it as best she could, not leaving out anything to do with the prophecy. When she finished, she expected questions, but the boy seemed to take the tale of his origins with calm acceptance. He stared into the distance with a thoughtful expression.
‘Losara?’ she said. ‘Do you understand what I’ve told you?’
‘Yes,’ he said quietly.
‘What are you thinking about?’
‘Everything,’ he said, then looked at her. ‘My father, maybe. Does he love me?’
Heron faltered. It wasn’t the first question she’d expected. ‘I suppose so,’ she said.
‘But he hasn’t seen me since I was born,’ said Losara.
‘That doesn’t matter. There is a special bond amongst families.’
‘Should I love him, then?’ said Losara. ‘I don’t know him. He went to the Open Halls to look for the other part of me. Why doesn’t he like this part?’
‘My dear, I’m not sure he knows you even exist,’ said Heron.
‘Oh. But you said you supposed that he loved me. How could he if he doesn’t know about me?’
‘I …guess I meant he would if he did,’ said Heron lamely.
‘Sons are meant to be with their fathers,’ said Losara. ‘But if he doesn’t know about me, maybe he’s all right. I suppose I don’t have to worry about him.’
Heron faltered again. Losara didn’t have to worry about his father? He was asking these questions out of concern for the man, not for himself?
‘I would like to meet him though,’ Losara went on. ‘One day.’
‘Yes,’ said Heron meekly. ‘That would be nice.’
‘Nice,’ repeated Losara, as if testing out the word. There was a knock at the door. ‘Tyrellan,’ he said. He always seemed to know who was at the door. As Tyrellan entered, Losara slid off the bed. ‘Hello, Tyrellan.’
‘Hello, young master,’ said Tyrellan stiffly.
‘Hello, Tyrellan’s butterfly,’ said Losara.
Tyrellan gritted his teeth. ‘Did Heron tell you about your birth?’
‘Yes,’ said Losara.
‘And you are …’ Tyrellan shifted his stance. ‘Do you feel …confused?’
‘Oh, no. Heron told it very well.’
‘But …about what you must do. What you will be. It is a large task. An important task.’
‘I guess that’s why Heron is teaching me as much as she can,’ said Losara. ‘Everything makes more sense now.’
‘I see,’ said Tyrellan, his eyes shining strangely.
He glanced at Heron, and Heron couldn’t help it – she shrugged. Losara reached out to tug Tyrellan on his trousers, not letting go when Tyrellan glanced down at his little hand.
‘Yes?’ said the goblin.
‘Do you have a father?’
‘I did.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘I killed him,’ said Tyrellan, then blinked.
Heron didn’t think he would have admitted that had he thought about it, but the boy seemed to bring out an honesty in the First Slave not normally seen. Maybe it was his innocent directness.
‘Why?’ asked Losara.
‘He didn’t want me to join the military,’ said Tyrellan. ‘He was a farmer.’ The word twisted his lips. ‘He wished me to stay on the farm, sought to stop me leaving and serving the shadow.’
‘So you left your father to be what you needed to be?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I guess we’re the same,’ said Losara, giving him a rare smile.
Tyrellan’s snarl dropped instantly from his face; Heron had never seen him look so openly surprised. He covered it quickly, glaring at her with a hard look that dared her to remember.
‘I have matters to attend to,’ he said. ‘Losara …Heron.’ With that he turned and marched from the room.
‘Well,’ said Losara, ‘it seems there are all kinds of fathers and sons.’